The room gave no clue to her location. The window was so obliterated with dirt that she had no view of the outside. Dark shadows against the panes told her it was barred, anyway. The plain chamber contained nothing more than her flea-ridden bed, a rough table, and two chairs on a filthy, bare wooden floor. A paltry fire gave off little warmth and a fair amount of smoke, laid as it was in a blackened fireplace that had long been in need of cleaning.
She had no memory of her arrival here. She thought she’d been in Whitechapel when she made the failed attempt at freedom, but she could be a day’s ride from there for all she was aware of the lapse of time. She would have to wait for Robert’s return before she could begin to plot her escape.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for the oblivion of sleep.
FORTY-FIVE
COLIN LEANED LOW over the saddle, his hands clenched on the reins, the paper crumpled in one fist. He couldn’t read it while Ebony’s pounding hooves ate up the miles of rutted road, but Ford’s scribbled words were burned into his brain.
Amy is missing. Come immediately.
His heart had been hammering since he’d set eyes on the cryptic note. He’d wasted no time setting out for London, his fevered imagination conjuring up scenes featuring every possibility, from Amy deciding to leave England on her own, to Amy lying dead in a ditch, a pistol wound in her chest.
The wind whipped past as he barreled along, praying mightily. He made the most outlandish promises, bargaining with the Almighty for her safe return. He would dedicate himself to the rebuilding of St. Paul’s Cathedral (though the great architect Wren hardly required his assistance). He would give all his riches to the needy (what riches?). He would marry Priscilla immediately, remain faithful and devoted to her the rest of his days, and never spare a single thought for Amethyst Goldsmith again.
This last promise was the most unlikely of all.
He’d been at war with himself for months now. It was a losing battle. As he shot through the City gates, one spurred boot nicked a vegetable barrow. He turned in the saddle, watched lemons and artichokes plop to the muddy street, yelled an apology to the vendor…and finally admitted to himself that he couldn’t let Amy go to France.
The thought of passing days, months, years of his life at Greystone without her—whether she was living with her aunt, married to someone else, or cold in her grave—made him sick in his gut. They belonged together.
It felt good to accept that inevitability. Now his course was clear. Now that he knew neither his pride nor his honor could stand between them, he certainly wouldn’t let some rotten criminal keep them apart. He would find her, make her safe, and then somehow convince her to stay. She simply had to stay.
Because he was in love with her.
Criminy, when had that happened?
He didn’t know; perhaps he’d fallen in love the very first day they met, or perhaps it had happened gradually. It wasn’t something he could analyze or account for. He only knew she was meant to be his. He needed her.
And right now, she needed him.
Ebony was lathered long before Colin reached Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but he merely tossed the reins to a groom instead of rubbing the horse down himself as he normally would after a hard ride. He threw open the front door of the town house and raced into the marble entry, heedless of the mud on his boots.
“Jason! Ford! Kendra!”
“Colin!” Kendra appeared from around the corner and threw herself at him. “Thank heavens you’re here!”
“Jason isn’t home.” Ford called down the stairs. “He left early this morning, before we discovered—”
“Discovered what?” Colin pulled Kendra’s arms from around his neck and set her away. “Tell me what you know, now,” he demanded.
“I’ll show you.” Kendra seized him arm and dragged him toward the staircase. “Yesterday Amy and I visited Madame Beaumont. When we came out, Amy ran into a young man named Robert, and they had a huge row.”
Colin held up a hand. “Robert Stanley?”
“I cannot remember his surname,” Kendra said, “but he was her father’s apprentice, and he was betrothed to Amy.”
“Robert Stanley,” Colin forced through clenched teeth. “Go on.”
“When she told him she’d no wish to marry him,” Kendra continued, “he lost control. He seized her and threatened her—”
“—and Kendra punched him in the jaw.” Ford met them on the landing. “Can’t you just picture it?”
Kendra’s eyes flashed green fire. “This is serious, Ford! And it was clearly a half-witted move on my part. Look what’s happened!”
Colin growled impatiently. “What has happened?”
“Come see.” She beckoned him down the corridor. “After I struck him, he let go of Amy, and we jumped into the carriage and rode away.”
“But not”—Ford stopped, his hand on the latch to Amy’s door—“before he claimed he would have Amy’s jewelry and Amy as well. It looks like he meant it.” He pushed open the door.
Colin was struck by a blast of cold air.
Momentarily dazed, he walked to the open window and peered outside. Below, a ladder rested against the house. He swung back around. The fire had long since burned out, and judging by the frigid temperature of the chamber, the window had been open for some time. Bedclothes littered the floor, and the blanket was missing.
“We left it as we found it,” Kendra whispered. “Look.”
Colin followed her gesture to the bed. Spots of blood dotted the sheets.
He dropped to sit on the mattress. A rose scent—Amy’s scent—wafted into the air. “You think he’s made off with her?”
Kendra
